


But The Heart Has Its Own Memory

by TravelingSong



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M, Red and Lizzie meet at a coffee shop, and take things from there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-03-10 06:11:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13496412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TravelingSong/pseuds/TravelingSong
Summary: "I wanted to see you.""And why is that?""I missed your company, Lizzie. No ulterior motives."The coffee arrives just in time, sparing her an honest response. She's not brave enough to tell him yet, how impatiently she waited for his calls, his messages, how she had hoped every day that he would be waiting for her at the Post Office or even in the lobby of her building. A total of two weeks apart, that's all it was. They've had much worse. And yet…





	1. Suddenly, Irrevocably

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write something light and fun, a more classic fic setup, so this is the result. It'll probably be about three or four chapters, depending on where the story takes me. Comments are always much appreciated. Thank you all for reading!

It's been five days.

He had called her late one evening while she was still at the office, just a few details on their current case, some intel that he had deemed helpful. It wasn't a long conversation, a bit too matter-of-fact for her own taste, and she could barely ask about his return date before the line went silent.  _Soon, Lizzie_. Whatever that meant. Soon. And now, almost a week later, she still hasn't received any kind of update.

She misses him. It's really just as simple as that. And she still has difficulties accepting it. Admitting it. Because it makes matters rather complicated.

It had happened gradually. Some abstract longing growing stronger, making mental notes to tell him about something he might enjoy, being reminded of former investigations they had solved together, another piece of the puzzle, and then, suddenly, irrevocably, the truth. That life seemed just a bit empty if he wasn't around. That he was the person she wanted to share hers with.

She takes another sip of her coffee, waits for the caffeine to do its magic. She's spent most of her weekends here since moving into the new apartment, the little cafe right around the corner, just busy enough for her to be social, just quiet enough for her to be able to concentrate. He would like it, she thinks, with its hospitable but unobtrusive atmosphere.

She wonders what he's up to this morning. Which time zone he frequents these days.

Lost in thought, she reaches for her wallet to find some cash as the chair across from her is pulled away from the table.

"Pardon me, is this seat taken?"

_Soon._

"No, it's all yours."

As he sits down and takes off his hat, she can barely hide her relief. He kept his promise.

"Hello, Lizzie."

* * *

"Were you getting ready to leave?"

"I was. But I could stay a little longer."

"Just what I wanted to hear. Would you like some more coffee then?"

"Sure."

He gestures towards the counter, orders two more cups, before directing his attention back to her.

"So," she begins, "welcome back."

"Thank you."

"How was your trip?"

"Profitable, if a bit lavish. I acquired a castle in Trieste."

She thinks she must have misheard him.

"Excuse me?"

"Exactly," he chuckles. "I've had my eye on it for quite some time and was finally able to make a decent offer. Worth every penny. You should come with me someday, if work permits."

_Come with me._

"I'll think about it."

"That's all I ask."

"Will you be staying for a while? Or are there any other European estates that demand buying?" she teases with a smile.

"Plenty, I'm sure. But not for me. I'll be staying in Washington for a bit. We do have some blacklisters to catch, after all. And I wanted to see you."

"And why is that?"

"I missed your company, Lizzie. No ulterior motives."

_I missed you, too._

The coffee arrives just in time, sparing her an honest response. The quick distraction she needed.

They sit in silence for a moment, let his words hang between them, let them gain meaning. She's not brave enough to tell him yet, how impatiently she waited for his calls, his messages, how she had hoped every day that he would be waiting for her at the Post Office or even in the lobby of her building. A total of two weeks apart, that's all it was. They've had much worse. And yet…

"This is really good," he says while pointing at the mug in front of him. "This is a lovely place."

"I've quickly become one of their regulars."

"I can see why. It fits you."

"I'm going to take that as a compliment."

"You should. Absolutely."

It's impossibly kind, the way he says it. His voice low and sincere, like he's sharing a secret.

"Were you just in the neighborhood?"

"Actually, I was on my way to your apartment when I spotted you through the window. You looked somewhat contemplative."

"It's been a long week."

_Weeks._

_"_ The FBI should let you rest more."

She thinks the FBI is not the problem at all.

"It's fine. Comes with the job, the lack of sleep."

"But you're alright?"

"I'm alright." It's not completely true and she suspects he knows it, too, but he stop his inquiry. "Tell me more about your trip."

They chat for almost an hour, a casual back and forth. She tells him of the latest gossip at work, he describes the beauty of the Italian countryside to her in vivid gestures. There's a lightness to the conversation she's been longing for, genuine laughter frequently echoing from their table as the people around them keep moving and they stay right where they are. When he absentmindedly touches her hand in the middle of one of his stories, it almost stings from its intensity. Reality slowly dawning.

"I should get going." It's a bit too clumsy, a bit too abrupt, the way she reaches for her coat and gets up, her last cup of coffee not quite finished.

"I've kept you long enough. Hold on, let me," he offers, takes her jacket and holds it up for her, smoothes her hair over her collar once she's done buttoning it up.

"It's good to see you, Red. I'm glad you're back." She quickly kisses his cheek, a first step, an impulse more than anything, leaves him standing there without saying goodbye.

Her hand still tingles as she clenches it into a fist.

She'll be looking up castles in Trieste when she gets home.

* * *

She's already in bed when her phone rings, fumbles for it on her nightstand.

"Hello?"

"Good evening, Lizzie. Did I wake you?"

"You didn't. Is it something about a case?"

"Not at all. I was simply wondering if you would be at that charming little cafe again tomorrow morning? And if you would care for someone to join you."

"Would that someone be you, Red?"

"There's a possibility."

"Yes, I'll be there."

"Splendid. Then I might see you there."

"Was that the sole reason you called?"

"Not entirely. There's something else I wanted to talk to you about."

She presses the phone closer to her ear, pulls the covers up to her chin.

"What did you want to talk about?"

She wonders why her heart is beating slightly faster suddenly. Why his pause seems never-ending.

"Which of their pastries would you recommend?"

She's thankful he can't see her expression, her feigned exasperated eye roll in the dark, her utter failure to be mad at him.

"Goodnight, Red," she tells him without answering his question, can't fully disguise the amusement in her voice.

"Goodnight, Lizzie."

She thinks he would like their blueberry scone.

She thinks morning can't come soon enough.


	2. One Last Thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading and commenting - it means a lot!

"Good morning, Lizzie."

He's smiling at her almost cheerfully, like a child on Christmas morning, someone who wouldn't want to be anywhere else in the world. So he had really meant it last night, she thinks as she watches him unbutton his coat and put it on the rack behind her, a good view, just in case. He had always been more of a morning person than her, getting up early to work his way through the newspaper, making calls when her eyes had barely been opened. Their time on the run, those scattered glimpses of domesticity. It might have been a lifetime ago.

"I hope I didn't keep you waiting," he says as he moves past her, his fingers swiftly gliding across her back and squeezing her shoulder, the kind of gesture exchanged by close friends, a routine habit, maybe, except there was no such thing as a routine with him, no, every moment bore a sliver of unpredictability. She wouldn't admit it but she had been on the lookout for him, had stolen furtive glances out the window expecting him to appear from around the corner any minute now.

"We didn't actually agree on a time, remember?" she responds softly. "Though I'm glad you made it."

The look he gives her,  _god_ , she wants to store it away like a precious gift.

"Have you had a chance to think about my pastry conundrum? I do value your opinion a great deal."

She wants to store away the phrase  _pastry conundrum_  as well.

"Try the blueberry scone."

"Blueberry scone it is. And what would you like?"

"Just another cappuccino."

"I'll be right back."

She observes him almost surreptitiously as he walks towards the counter and places their order, sees him charm the barista and rolls her eyes in amusement, yes, she knows that feeling, too. He returns a few moments later with coffee and an assortment of baked goods,  _in case we stay a while_ , he tells her, and she thinks she likes the sound of that. She doesn't have any other plans today.

"So do you have any new blacklisters for me?" she asks as she decides on a chocolate chip muffin.

"Lizzie, don't you think a morning like this is much too pleasant to be talking of work?"

"What would you like to talk about instead?"

"Tell me about your new apartment. Have you settled in yet?"

"I'm getting there. It feels a bit sterile, still, and I haven't gotten a chance to put up any photos. It's one of the reasons I spend so much time here. Spares me the effort of decorating."

"If I can help in any way, I would be more than happy to."

"I know," she says with a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. It's not the full truth and he's too polite to ask. "Thank you."

"Anytime."

* * *

"How did we lose track of time like this?" she asks with a surprised look at her watch. Morning is long gone.

"I think the correct phrase is  _time flies when you're having fun_."

She can't help but laugh because yes, that would be the apt phrase. They had covered just about every topic imaginable, had finished all of the pastries along the way, and now it's early afternoon and there's still no sign of either of them wanting to leave.

"I think we'll keep them in business for years to come if we continue this little ritual," he remarks casually, prompting her to reflect on the past two days.

"Red, can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"Why have we never done this before?"

"What do you mean?"

"Just…talk, I suppose. Spend time together like this."

They both know why, really. The way people would start whispering, their respective roles, the wrong timing. Nothing about their relationship was easy. And yet, with the question hanging between them now, he cannot think of a good enough excuse.

"Would you like to? Would you like to spend more time together?"

It could be just this simple for once.

"Yes." A routine. "Yes, I think I would."

* * *

It's how they pass the following weekends, with coffee in the morning and phone calls at night, gradually letting their boundaries crumble, gradually letting the conversations grow more honest, more personal.

"Do you feel lonely?" he asks her during a particularly late talk one evening and she's taken aback by the straightforwardness of it all, can feel her mind growing defensive, a trained coping mechanism forcing her to pause because she  _still_  can't admit her own vulnerabilities and she  _still_  can't deal with the fact that seeing him, that having the certitude of seeing him, has become her favorite part of the week. It scares her. To need someone that much. To acknowledge the ramifications. Maybe that's why her mood changes for the worse and maybe that's why she pretends to suddenly be busy and maybe that's why she hangs up without giving him a chance to explain.

Maybe that's why he calls her back just as she turns off the lights.

"Hello?"

"I think you misunderstood me earlier, Lizzie." His voice is low and kind, covering her like a warm blanket in the dark. "I didn't mean to be presumptuous. I didn't mean to imply that you lead a solitary existence, by no means. The truth is I find myself seeking your company because you make  _me_  feel less lonely. And I would like to thank you for that. As selfish as it may be, I cherish our encounters a great amount because they allow me to spend time with you, to get to know you better. And I would like to, Lizzie. I would like to get to know you better."

She closes her eyes, tries to steady her breathing as she focuses on his words.

"I feel like you know pretty much everything about me, Red."

"I can think of quite a few things I'm still rather curious about," and she doesn't miss the edge in his tone, the way his voice drops.

"Try me." A bit more daring now, unsure what to expect.

He takes his time to respond, lets his mind wander until he decides on the direction he wants to go.

"Do you ever wish we had never met?" he begins. "Do you ever wish I had simply walked past the FBI that day?"

Oh.

"I was mostly waiting for you to ask me about my favorite color or my favorite book."

"I like to remain unpredictable." He gives her a moment because he knows it's not an obvious question, it's unfair and challenging, but he needs some kind of confirmation. "Lizzie?"

She starts slowly.

"There were moments in the beginning where I thought you were to blame for everything going wrong in my life. It was so easy, having a scapegoat, a criminal no less." She can hear him swallow, can imagine the twitch beneath his eye. "But then I realized something."

"What?"

"That I couldn't stay mad at you. No matter how angry I was, no matter how much I tried to keep my distance…and you and I both know just  _how_  hard I tried—"

"I do recall a few heated exchanges."

"What I realized was that you remained right there in my mind, like a thought I couldn't shake. And that over time the anger I had felt turned into something else."

He can barely bring himself to ask.

"What did it turn into?"

It won't be the full truth. They both know it.

They still need time.

"Affection."

It's good enough. It's so much more than he could have hoped for.

He wishes he could see her face, glides his fingers down the armrest of the couch as if her hand was waiting at the end of it.

"It's late, I should probably—"

It's her voice that shakes him from his reverie, that reminds him he hasn't said a word.

"One last thing, Lizzie, if I may?"

"Yes?"

"Would you care to go out to dinner with me?"  _More time together._  "I think we have mastered this breakfast thing quite brilliantly. Why don't we change it up a bit?"


	3. Where's The Fun In That?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank you all for your kudos and especially your wonderful comments. I'm beyond grateful. I hope you enjoy this chapter just as much as the last two!

„This was a tremendous idea, if I may say so myself.“

„The evening hasn’t even started yet, Red.“

She closes the door behind her, can feel his gaze traveling down the length of her dress, a whisper sending shivers down her spine.

„Even so.“

He follows her down the hall towards the elevator, his hand a faint presence near the small of her back.

“And what exactly is the plan for tonight?”

“Patience, Lizzie. You’ll find out soon enough.”

“Do you ever get tired of turning everything into a mystery?”

“Never. Though I promise you, you won’t be disappointed.”

Her voice just as suggestive as his.

“I never have been.”

It sounds like a challenge.

* * *

They don’t speak much during the drive to the restaurant. They’ll have all night to talk, she thinks, and there’s nothing uncomfortable about their shared silence. It’s the anticipation of what’s to come more than anything else.

“Here we are,” he says after quite some time as the car comes to a stop in front of an inconspicuous townhouse. She doesn’t recognize this neighborhood, guesses the river must be close by judging from their general direction, but she doesn’t ask. He leads her through an unassuming front door with a sign she can’t make out in the dark down a narrow hallway, until finally the room opens up and she is surrounded by chatter and music. It’s the kind of place that fits him perfectly, the sophisticated yet welcoming interior, the intimate booths, the jazz trio off to the side. She notices that all the tables are occupied, all except a seating arrangement in the corner, private yet with a perfect view of the stage, a perfect view of the entire spectacle.

“That’s us.”

Of course it is. Of course he’s reserved the best spot for the two of them.

He takes her coat and hands it to a server,  _Mr. Reddington, sir,_ greets him with a cordial handshake,  _great to see you again_ , and she realizes just how well people know him here, how much they respect him.

As he sits down across from her, she watches him with an amused expression.

“What is it?”

“It’s just how I pictured it.”

“Pictured what, Lizzie?”

“Going out with you.”

He thinks she’s extraordinary.

* * *

The food is exquisite, she really couldn’t describe it any other way, and the atmosphere is nothing short of thrilling, with their conversation never coming to a stop.  _This is what it could be like_ , just a single thought in her head,  _this is what life could be like,_ surprising and riveting and challenging, with him by her side, a team, something marvelous.

He’s in the middle of another anecdote when the lights dim and the music changes to a softer, slower rhythm.

“What’s going on?” she asks as the other guests move to the empty space in front of the stage.

“I suppose this is the mystery portion of the evening you were so curious about earlier.”

“Which would be—”

“A midnight dance. Somewhat of a tradition in this establishment.”

“The dancing is mandatory?”

“Not mandatory at all, only encouraged.”

“Encouraged by whom?”

“Me, mostly.”

She can’t help but laugh at that. He’s delightfully ridiculous.

“No need to worry, Lizzie. It’s not a milonga. We also won’t have to steal an artifact by the end of it.”

“Where’s the fun in all this then?” she teases and he gets up and holds out his hand.

“Allow me to show you.”

He’s too charming for his own good, she thinks, and before she can change her mind he’s guiding her past the other couples to the middle of the floor. She’s more nervous than she’d like to admit and there’s really no reason for any of it, this is not a mission, no intel depends on the outcome of their interactions, but she doesn’t want to fail this, either, doesn’t want to fail  _him_.

He positions them with skill and ease just like he had done at the embassy all those years ago when she had forgotten her surroundings for a moment, the situation a little too overwhelming. She doesn’t feel much different, even now, and there’s still a bit of distance between them as his fingers take hold of hers, as he sways them gently to the music, back and forth.

“Trust me,” he tells her and smiles, something encouraging and warm, her movements becoming more comfortable almost instantly as she lets him take the lead.

“I’m out of practice, apparently.”

“You’re doing wonderful, Lizzie. That being said, I’d happily practice with you any time.”

Always the gentleman.

“Why are you so good at this?”

“I watched an awful lot of Fred Astaire films as a child.”

“Red.”

“I can’t reveal all my secrets during our first dinner together.” He pulls her just a bit closer, leaves a whisper in her hair. “Where’s the fun in that?”

* * *

They stay for a second dance and a third before they leave the restaurant and step out into the quiet night, the sidewalks completely deserted, the air pleasantly chilly.

“There’s something I want to show you,” he says and takes her hand like it’s nothing, crosses the street and points towards a secluded staircase around the corner.

She had been right. Just by the river.

It’s a promenade that reveals itself as they descend step after step, a well-kept secret on the edge of town. She pauses because the view is breathtaking, the tranquil flow of the water leading the way, the subtle reflections of the city lights gleaming back at her. Magical things happen with backdrops like this, she thinks, and she turns to lean against a brick wall nearby, gets a chance to study his profile when he doesn’t immediately follow her.

There’s always been an elegance to his appearance that she couldn’t quite grasp, an aura that transcended the sophisticated clothes he was wearing, something much more intricate than that. The crafted persona, the glimpses of vulnerability that would shine through on rare occasions, the man she was observing now, so deeply lost in thought, never quite disguising the melancholy that lingered somewhere beneath the surface. The secrets he couldn’t share and the words he couldn’t say.

“Red?”

There’s no purpose to her question, no answer she expects. She just wants to look at him, wants to gauge where all this is headed or at least hope cautiously.

He raises his eyebrow in response, walks towards her with all the calmness in the world, one step, then another, until he’s right in front of her.

“Are you cold?” he asks.

A quick shake of her head and a smile.

“Not anymore.”

She notices because she knows him better than most. How his features relax, how everything becomes a bit softer, the pull between them so palpable now, so present, and she thinks if he’d only be brave enough to act on his intuition she’d happily watch her whole world collapse at this very moment.

He can’t hide it anymore, never fully could, but it’s right there in his eyes now, right there in the way he steadies himself with his hand pressed against the wall next to her head, a hiding place for the two of them, something so wonderfully simple, something she’ll remember every detail of.

“Lizzie, I—“

“I know.”

She expects him to stop, expects him to change his mind, but he doesn’t falter.

Instead, he guides her away from the wall, encircles her waist with his arm, slowly and gently and closer, always closer, his fingertips finding their way beneath her coat, it’s so warm suddenly, the air around them, and she can feel his steady breaths, peaceful almost, patient, as if everything has suddenly fallen into place. He kisses her as if he was always meant to, with confidence and wonder, as if he has thought of it many times before, what it would feel like, what he would do. He kisses her like a man in love and maybe that’s why she closes her eyes, maybe that’s why she lets him guide them. Because there’s not a single doubt left. Because they’ve waited so long. Because this is where their story begins.

He makes it last, this moment. There’s no one chasing them now, no target on their backs, no perils affecting their every move. She pulls him back towards her when he breaks contact and he can’t help but smile when she doesn’t give him a choice.  _Not yet_ , she tells him.  _Not yet._

Later, much later, he’ll be staring out the window as she leans against his side in the backseat.

He’ll be wide awake.

He’ll be hoping for lots of traffic.

* * *

She doesn’t check the display, can already guess who will be on the other end.

“Yes?”

“Hello, Lizzie.”

“Hey. Is anything the matter?”

“No, nothing in particular.” He just wants to hear her voice, really, but doesn’t speak the words. “Did you make it home okay?”

He doesn’t mention the fact that he had accompanied her into the foyer of her building before bidding her goodnight, that a quick elevator ride had been all that was left.

“Yes.”

“And you enjoyed the evening?”

"I’ve had worse.”

“You wound me, Lizzie.”

“It was as dazzling as I knew it would be.”

"That’s better.” She seems too far away suddenly, the room too empty without her, and he thinks he’s done being patient. “Would you like to do it again?”

“Your company tonight must have been truly memorable,” she teases.

“Exceptional. Well?“

She misses him even now.

“I would love to.”

"You can’t possibly imagine how happy that makes me, Lizzie.”

She thinks she can. Absolutely.

“It’s taken us a long time.”

“No reason to lose any more then.”

She doesn’t want to but she can feel herself drift off, the events of the night still so clear in her mind, so vivid.

“Red?”

“Yeah?”

“You were right, by the way.”

“About what?”

She wonders what he would look like sleeping next to her.

“I wasn’t disappointed.”


	4. One Condition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't thank you all enough for your incredible feedback. This fic is a pleasure to write and I'm so happy you guys are enjoying the ride so far. I had originally planned for this fic to be four chapters but it's developed a life of its own so there will definitely be more after this.

He's never late.

He told her once that punctuality was a matter of decorum, a question of courtesy, and thinking back on it now she has to acknowledge that he had always been a man of impeccable timing. They had agreed on Saturday morning coffee the day after their night at the restaurant and the week had been a particularly slow one to pass, the hours dragging on without any sense of urgency.  _Our cafe by your apartment_ , he had told her,  _let's meet there when I'm back._ Back from a trip up north, business as usual, some operation she didn't know the details of. But he had called her every evening, checking in to see how she was doing, her memory of their moments by the water so vivid and the desire to spend time with him so tangible.

And now, now she's sitting at their favorite table, the minutes ticking away as she waits for her coffee to arrive.

He's never late. And he's not here.

* * *

"Hello?"

"Lizzie."

"Red, are you okay?"

"I am. But I think I won't be able to make it."

"What's going on? Where are you?"

She's scared now, hopes he's not injured.

"In Vermont, still. We got caught in a blizzard." The weather. Just the weather. "We were supposed to board at sunrise but the conditions out there are horrid. I'm very sorry, Lizzie."

"It's not your fault. It's a bit of a relief, actually."

"That I'm not there?"

"No. No, I want you here. It's just the fact that even the Concierge of Crime can't control the weather."

"Believe me, I have been close to trying."

"I have no doubt. But I'm glad you're alright. I was worried that—" She stops herself, doesn't want her mind to wander into dark places.

"I would have called you earlier but the connection kept breaking up. There's no need to worry, Lizzie. I'm alright."

"What's the forecast?"

"Right now, it seems we will be stuck here for at least another six to seven hours. So I'm going to have to take a rain check on our breakfast rendezvous."

"Which is a shame because I just ordered a scone."

"I might have to fly this plane myself then." He listens to her laughter, smiles wistfully as he looks out on the snow-covered tarmac. He misses her. "I'm sorry I'm not there."

"I hear distance makes the heart grow fonder."

"I don't think mine could grow much fonder than it already has."

She thinks she feels the same.

She  _knows_  she feels the same.

"Red, can I ask you something?"

"Anything."

"The night at the restaurant, our walk by the river. How did you know it would be the right moment?"

He's surprised she asks him so candidly. They've come a long way.

"Because you looked at me differently. You looked at me with—"

"With what?"

"Something more than affection." He lets her connect the dots, will tell her the full story in person one day. When he can look at her, when she's not hundreds of miles away. "I have to go. Looks like the pilot wants to speak with me."

"Call me later, okay? And come back safely."

"I promise. And Lizzie?"

"Yeah?"

"Next time I'll be there."

* * *

She spends most of her day with a watchful eye on her phone, doesn't want to miss any messages from him. It's late in the afternoon when she settles down with a cup of tea and her screen lights up with his number. Finally.

"Any updates?"

"Not much, I'm afraid. We are hoping to get clearance for take-off within the next two hours."

"So you'll just have to wait and be patient?"

"I suppose so. You are, of course, more than welcome to entertain me for the time being. If you're not busy, that is."

"I'm not busy."

"Let's talk then, shall we? A perfect opportunity to find out more about each other."

"One condition."

"And that is?"

"Tell me something about yourself, Red. A story from your childhood, your favorite teacher, a book you loved when you were younger, anything. Tell me something I don't know."

She waits for him to start, pulls a blanket over her legs to make herself comfortable. They'll have two hours. His voice is soft and calm when he begins.

"My parents weren't particularly wealthy but they had a great passion for literature. When I grew up, my mother and I would sit on the porch watching the sun set over the lake across from our house and after dinner, she would read to me. Every night, without exception. Whatever book she could find in that small house of ours, she would sit down on the edge of my bed and read to me. She'd explain words I wasn't familiar with, ask my opinions of the characters, discuss possible twists and outcomes. And then, when I couldn't keep my eyes open any longer, she would turn off the lights and leave me to my own imagination.  _Tomorrow is another day and there are endless stories for you to discover_ , she would say."

She's never heard him talk about his family like this, truthful and vulnerable, a glimpse into his past. It must be painful for him, still, knowing how life forced him to fill different roles and meet different expectations, the innocent days of his childhood so abstract suddenly, so distant.

She wishes he was closer. Her eyes are filled with tears.

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For sharing."

"Thank you for asking, Lizzie. People aren't usually all that interested."

"I am. Always."

She can hear him sigh, an audible crack in his composure, before he continues their conversation as if nothing had happened.

"My turn."

"What would you like to know?"

"Are you scared of the future, Lizzie?"

"Somewhat concerned, perhaps. Scared? No."

"Why are you concerned?"

"Because of our relationship."

"I would have hoped our  _relationship_  would elicit a different kind of emotion than that."

"It does. That's what's causing me concern."

"I see." Another pause, the words selected carefully. "Do you regret it? The direction we have chosen?"

"Not a bit. Not a second."

"Then that's all that matters, isn't it?"

"There's one more thing."

"Which would be?"

"Come home."

* * *

Home.

She hadn't thought about it much, that particular phrase, couldn't have stopped it. It had felt good, had felt right.

_I see my way home_.

It's what they had always been to each other, it's what had always been the heart of their story.

And now, now she's waiting for his return mere days after she had last seen him, mere hours after she had last heard his voice.  _I guess we're stuck with each other_. Yes, she thinks, yes they are. She wouldn't change a thing.

She's about to get ready for bed when her phone rings once again, the familiar number greeting her, and she answers without hesitation.

"Hey. Are you back?"

There's a knock on the door then and she tells him to hang on just a second, that she'll return the call in a moment.

When she opens, he's still clasping his phone in his hand.

"Hello, Lizzie."

She can't quite believe her eyes.

"Yes, I'm back."

His smile is just short of impish. She should have seen this coming.

"Are you enjoying yourself, Red?" she asks with feigned irritation, her relieved expression giving her away.

"A little, admittedly." He steps towards her and presses a kiss to her cheek, the corner of her lips, sufficient conciliation. "May I come in?"


	5. Priorities, Lizzie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again I would like to thank all of you for your incredibly kind comments re: this fic. They're a pleasure to read and make me happier than you know. Chapter 5, here we go. Enjoy!

"Tea? Coffee? Something stronger?“

"Tea is fine, thank you."

"I made some just before you arrived. Right this way."

He follows her into the kitchen, leans against the counter to watch her. He's exactly where he wants to be. She's a sight for his tired eyes.

"So you weathered the storm?" she says over her shoulder as she goes through her cabinets.

"Quite literally. Not my most comfortable journey on a plane."

"But you made it."

"I made it."

"And you came here."

"Well, you mentioned something about coming home so I figured I should stop by. And since the cafe is surely closed at this late hour—"

"—it would only make sense that this was your alternative destination."

"Precisely.“ She hands him a filled mug and he takes it with a deliberate brush of her fingers.

"Are you hungry? I brought some pastries home with me earlier."

"I've been here for almost twenty minutes and you're just  _now_  disclosing this piece of information? Priorities, Lizzie."

"I promise I'll do better next time."

She takes a paper bag out of her fridge and grabs a plate, arranges everything with care and holds it out to him. "Here you go."

It's almost comical, the consideration with which he makes a choice, like a child on Christmas morning pondering which present to open first. The small pleasures in life.

"This tastes like heaven," he gushes after the first bite.

"So easy to please."

He laughs and steps closer.

"On occasion."

Closer.

"Raymond Reddington. Corrupted by baked goods."

_Closer._

"Don't tell anyone. The damage that could be done."

"Unimaginable."

It's just a whisper, her final response, before he kisses her for a second time. It's not the promenade now, it's not a hideaway. It's in the middle of her kitchen with his hands on either side of her face and a hint of sugar on his lips, the slight pressure of the countertop against her lower back, it's with confidence and ease and an intimacy that ignites wherever his skin connects with hers, it's with the knowledge that nothing could interrupt them here and that this could go on forever if they wanted it to,  _god_ , she wants it to. She's never felt quite like this.

"Thank you," he breathes somewhere in between. For the pastries. For so much more.

"You're welcome."

Just a bit of distance now.

"You know, Lizzie, I’ve never actually been inside this new apartment of yours.“

"What do you think?“

"It’s charming," he responds as he turns around to study her living room, breaking contact. "Missing a few pictures, perhaps, but other than that.“

"I’m still working on it.“

"Lack of motivation or lack of inspiration?“

"A bit of both, I suppose.“

"I’m sure we could remedy that. There’s a particularly stunning wanted poster that I could have framed for you.“

"Which would seem perfectly normal for an FBI agent.“

She pats his back affectionately as he grabs his mug and plate and guides him towards the couch, sits down in the same spot she had occupied earlier, her phone pushed close to her ear so she wouldn’t miss a word. This is much better, she thinks. So much better than a call.

* * *

It's much more than a quick visit, he realizes close to midnight. He had told her about the details of his trip and she'd given him updates on the task force's most recent intel concerning some names on his list. He had always been impressed by her skills, even from the very beginning, could listen to her insights for hours,  _I so want to know how you see things_ , and maybe one of these days he'll ask her again to tell him his profile. He wonders what she'd say. 

She's sitting close, not touching him but within reach just the same, and he's convinced he's never been quite this content, quite this serene. He's glad he decided to stop by tonight. Tomorrow would have seemed like an awfully long wait.

"You look happy," she observes.

"I am, Lizzie."

"Good. Very good." She smiles and rests her head against the back of the couch.

She's always liked to simply look at him, just a glance at times, but there's no need to be surreptitious about it now. There's still so much to discover. All the stories he could tell. Her most treasured memories. His point of view.

"Anything the matter?" he wonders when she stays silent for a few moments.

"Absolutely nothing."

"Good." He pulls her closer so she can lean against him and closes his eyes. "Very good."

* * *

"Lizzie?"

"Yeah?"

He can't really feel his arm anymore, her body so completely resting against his side, and he thinks it's a small price to pay if he can just be near her.

"It's late."

"And?"

"You'll be sore in the morning if you continue to sleep like this."

"I'm perfectly comfortable."

"Trust me on this. Come on."

He helps her stand and leads her to the bedroom, her expression wonderfully drowsy, her voice mumbling things he can't fully make out,  _will you stay_ , perhaps, but he can't be sure, prefers not to hope. As she pulls the covers up to her chin, he sits down next to her on the edge of the bed, her eyes following his every move. He looks good here, in her home, by her side. He looks like he fits.

"Thank you," she says. For stopping by. For so much more.

He doesn't return her gaze, busies himself with her hair spread out over the pillow, brushes a few strands away from her cheek.

"Lizzie, those concerns you mentioned on the phone—"

"Let's talk about it in the morning."

It takes him a moment to fully grasp her words, her tone so determined, so matter-of-fact.

"You want me to stay?"

She treasures them, these lingering insecurities beneath his meticulously crafted confidence, knows he would never dare to be presumptuous, knows he would always leave it up to her.

"Yes," she says as she pulls back the covers on the other side of the bed.

She'll make the choice for him.

"I want you to stay."


	6. I've Always Said So

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone asked me to please post an update for Easter so here we are. Once again, thank you guys so much for all your kind feedback, your comments and kudos. This fic will keep going a little bit longer. Thanks for sticking around!

He has his overnight bag with him because he had gone straight from the airport to her apartment and that's convenient, yes, but it won't matter. He realizes quickly that he won't need any of it.

As he turns off the light and walks over to the other side of the bed, he pauses for a moment, stands there in the dark, layers of clothing still perfectly in place, and looks at her. She can't see his expression but she knows him well enough to guess,  _Red_ , and this is different now,  _it's okay_ , this isn't a safe house in the middle of nowhere and this isn't an abandoned theater stage with a domestic setting and this isn't a shipping container either, no, this is her home and another line in the sand impatient to disappear. She watches him take off his vest, slowly and with care , watches him unbutton his shirt, his body a mere silhouette, his breathing steady and calm. She can feel the mattress dip once he's done, can make out his features now, expectant and contemplative and somehow beautifully content, almost peaceful.

"What are you thinking about?" she asks him.

"That delectable croissant I had earlier, for the most part."

"And the other part?"

"You, Lizzie."

"Good things?"

"Without a doubt."

She moves her head over to his pillow and his hand finds hers beneath the sheets, instinctively, intimately, his fingertips drawing patterns across her skin.

"Thank you for letting me stay."

"Did you expect me to make you leave?"

"Not necessarily."

"But?"

"But my line of work has taught me to remain cautious of occurrences that seem too good to be true."

She understands the impulse. She does. The twists and turns of their lives, the suspicion that has settled somewhere deep down in their conscience, the fragility of moments like this, how quickly it could all be over. But she won't allow it. Not this time.

"It's very much true, Red." A faint kiss, the promise of more. "And we deserve this, you and I. We're stuck with each other, remember?"

"I do, Lizzie." His hands gently pulling her towards him. "I do."

"And we're gonna make a great team."

A smile as he hovers above her.

"I've always said so."

It's many things at once. It's the way he moves and aligns them with impeccable skill, it's how her fingertips explore the scars on his back, how he sighs her name in between kisses, how he indulges in discoveries. It's the fact she can feel his heartbeat, it's the way her skin seems to pulsate whenever he touches her, demanding, pleading,  _we should have done this much sooner_  and  _we have all the time in the world_ , it's gentle sounds and candid declarations, a constant pull, more and more and more.

The realization that falling asleep next to her is exquisite, that waking up next to her seems like a reverie. That every second along the way was all he had ever wanted and more than he could have imagined.

He's barely awake when she presses her lips to his once more.

"And then something new will begin," she whispers.

He believes she's right.

* * *

He’s not there when she wakes and it somehow feels like a missed opportunity or something very close to longing but there are footsteps in the hall and she thinks she has an idea what he’s doing. He’d be the type.

She gets up and finds his shirt draped over the foot of the bed, puts it on without a moment of hesitation. There's a good chance she'll keep it, surely he has enough of them to spare, and it's soft and warm and  _so much_  better than just her regular clothes, there are memories here, and secrets.

She opens the door and slowly makes her way into the kitchen, spots him by the stove,  his back turned towards her. He's wearing a robe, his luggage coming in handy this morning, though she can't help but be surprised, was half-expecting to find him dressed in a three-piece suit. Somehow, especially now, she prefers this attire on him. It means he'll stay a little longer.

"Hey," she begins.

He turns around then and it's extraordinary, the way his face lights up when he sees her.

"Hey.“

"You clean up nice."

"Dressed for the occasion."

"Which would be?"

"Breakfast."

She stretches to catch a glimpse of the pan behind him.

"And what are we having?"

"Crêpes. If that sounds good to you."

"That sounds perfect."

She wishes every day could start like this, with his company and his cooking skills, walks over to pour herself a glass of water and joins him by the counter to get a better look.

"Your kitchen and I have become well acquainted over the past hour. Though I hope my search for ingredients and utensils didn't wake you."

"It didn't."

"I'm glad." He suddenly stops his movements, his attention captivated by something else.  "That shirt looks familiar.“

"Someone left it on my bed.“

"Must have been someone with impeccable taste. In shirts and—"

"—pastries?“

His eyes travel down her body, linger at the delicate realm where the hem of his shirt brushes her bare skin.

"Pastries, yes.“

He likes this side of her, playful and confident, teasing and suggestive. He'd happily let her keep his shirt, too.

"Red?"

A quiet intermission to his musings.

"Yes?“

"Come back to bed.“

"And what about breakfast?“

He couldn't possibly refuse her offer.

"Just bring it along.“

* * *

"I could get used to this."

"I already have." He places his empty plate on the nightstand, leans back against the headboard and sighs contently.

"Don't let this go to your head but—"

"But?"

"But this is delicious."

"Flattery will get you just about anywhere, Lizzie."

She rolls her eyes at him, can't fully hide her smile as she takes another bite.

"You should stay for breakfast more often."

"I intend to."

"Yeah?"

"Without question. I think this was a rather successful endeavor. Breathtaking, even."

There's still so much she wants to say, so much they need to discuss, but she can't muster the strength to change the conversation. She doesn't want him to leave, either.

"Do you have plans today, Red?"

"Plans? A few, yes." There's a hint of disappointment in her expression he doesn't miss. "Any that take place outside of this bedroom? No, not really."

She has to fight the urge to throw a pillow at him. Later, maybe.

"So what exactly are your plans?"

"Well…" He takes the plate out of her hand and stacks it on top of his, takes his time to consider his next steps, presses his lips to her cheek, again, and again, slowly, softly.

As she leans in to kiss him, he pulls back just a bit.

"Patience, Lizzie."

He'll make it last, this hideaway they've created. He has some ideas.

"Anticipation is part of the fun." His voice nothing but challenge and bliss. "Wouldn’t you agree?“


	7. This Very Good Thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this chapter took a bit longer but writing has been kind of impossible with work lately. The next chapter, however, is already planned out and will be posted with a much shorter wait. Thank you all for reading and for leaving incredibly kind feedback. Enjoy!

There’s many things that surprise her. About him. About herself.

She’s fascinated with getting to know him better, with deducing the discrepancies between the persona and the man underneath. Sometimes she thinks back on their time together, long before a dance, long before a kiss by the water, tries to identify the first glimpses she ever caught of his kindness, his gentle demeanor, his wit, that particular spark in his eye. Maybe she should have known much sooner. Maybe it happened just as it was supposed to.

She’s found a new fondness for his playful tendencies, the lighthearted moments that lift her mood after a frustrating day at the office, a lead that ends in the dark. He’s there when she needs him, in whatever way he can manage. A phone call, an arm around her shoulder, the words she wants to hear. A penny and a magic trick.

She's come to the conclusion that waking up next to him is her favorite part. When he blinks back at her with half-open eyes, his face pressed into the pillow, his three-piece suit nowhere to be found and his hat resting peacefully on the nightstand. Sometimes he simply looks at her and smiles. Sometimes he leans forward and kisses her. Sometimes he puts his arm around her, his hand finding hers through some magnetic pull, sighs deeply and goes back to sleep.

It makes her forget there's things they still need to discuss.

It makes her calm.

* * *

They haven't seen each other all week, obligations forcing them to lead their separate lives, a breakthrough on an investigation, a promising business venture a few miles south of Washington.

Her apartment feels empty suddenly, as if a crucial part has vanished, as if the rooms remain incomplete. She hadn't wanted to get used to it so quickly, the luxury of having him around, but it's there nonetheless, that longing, that unease. The  _what if_. Her phone on the table like a challenge and his voice like a remedy.

"Hello?"

“Red…Did I wake you? Is this a bad time?”

“You can call me anytime, Lizzie.” He thinks she sounds somewhat nervous, wonders what's on her mind at this late hour. “How did the investigation go?”

“I’d rather not talk about work tonight.”

“What would you like to talk about?”

There’s a pause and he can feel his fingertips tap hastily against the edge of the couch. Something like anticipation.

“Remember when I said I had certain concerns?” she begins.

“Yes.”

“Well...” She can’t think of a single way to turn her worries into words. She doesn’t really know where to start.

“Talk to me, Lizzie. Whatever it is.”

There's silence at the end of the line and he knows that feeling, too, the fear and uncertainty that comes with broaching personal matters, anything dear. He can hear her take a deep breath.

He has an idea where their conversation is headed.

“I’m scared this good thing, this  _very_  good thing we have will be taken away from us."

He was right.

"I’m scared one of us will get hurt. I’m scared something will happen to you. I'm scared that one day you won't be able to answer your phone.”

“Lizzie—“

“I’m scared of just how much I miss you when you’re not here.”

It’s the last admission that strikes him most severely, that causes the movement of his hand to still, his breathing to stop.

“Red? Are you there?”

There's an abundance of thoughts in his head, a variety of directions he could take this. Maybe he could tell her he won't let any of it happen, that he will always come home to her, whatever it takes, no matter the distance, no matter the perils along the way. Maybe he could tell her about the first time he realized he loved her, irrevocably, completely, a love he didn't know he was still capable of experiencing. Maybe he could lie to her and tell her none of this had ever crossed his mind.

Maybe he could simply tell her the truth. Maybe it's what she needs from him more than anything.

"I'm scared, too."

"And you worry?"

"Constantly. Most of all about you. But that is the life we have chosen.”

“I wish it didn’t have to be this way.”

“It’s always been your choice. Just say the word.”  _And I’ll be gone_. He swallows his final thought, is relieved she can’t see the twitch beneath his eye.

“Never.” She doesn’t hesitate, her response an impulse, a declaration, the only thing she knows.

“ _Never_  is an awfully long time, Lizzie.”

“Time flies by when you’re having fun,” she says with the hint of a smile. “Someone told me that once.”

“Sounds like a wise man. Handsome, even.”

“Humble, too.”

She can hear him chuckle, thinks she couldn’t imagine life without him.

“Everything will be okay, Lizzie. We’ll be fine. And I'm not going anywhere."

"Neither am I."

"That settles it then."

"We're stuck with each other."

"Yes." He leans back and looks up at the ceiling, recalls her expression in the middle of a park many years ago. "Something like that."

“Red?”

“What is it?”

“Would you care for breakfast tomorrow? There’s this little cafe right around the corner and—“

“And I hear one meets the loveliest people there.”

“Then I’ll see you in the morning?”

“Absolutely. Simply look for the handsome gentleman in the hat.”

“You know, I should really reconsider what I said earlier.  _Never_  might have been a bit too—“

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He can feel himself drift off, imagines her there beside him. He hopes morning comes quickly. “Goodnight, Lizzie.”

“Goodnight.”


	8. What Would Your Words Be?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, the next chapter. To clear one thing up in advance: this is not the final chapter. There will be two more, one regular one, one epilogue. Thank you all for reading and thank you all for your wonderful feedback. It means the world. So enjoy and let me know your thoughts!

“The gentleman in the hat.”

He looks up to find her watching him, her left eyebrow raised in amusement, her smile just as enticing as he remembered it, folds up the morning paper and puts his fedora on top with quiet emphasis.

“Handsome, Lizzie. You forgot handsome.”

He gets up to greet her, kisses her cheek and takes her coat,  _you look beautiful_ , just a whisper as he pulls back the chair for her,  _stunning even_ , and she thinks she won’t mention the fact that she spent an hour after their phone call trying to pick out just the right outfit. He really doesn’t have to know everything.

“You must have been here pretty early,” she says as she skims the menu.

“I was, admittedly.”

“Impatient for pastries, Red?”

“Pastries and that lovely company I was promised.”

“And what’s the verdict?”

“She’s exceeded all my wildest dreams and expectations.”

She wonders if she could ever grow immune to that particular ability of his to make her feel like the only person in the room. She thinks if the shiver down her spine is any indication, she already knows the answer.

“So,” he interrupts her musings. “What would you like, Lizzie?”

“Coffee and a cherry scone.”

“Good choice. I hear the scones especially are exquisite. I’ll be right back.”

It’s a gift, these moments, his demeanor so different from the struggles they have overcome, so different from the tragedies they once faced. Maybe that’s her greatest accomplishment. That he trusts her enough to see both sides, the light and the dark. That he trusts her enough to be himself.

He returns with their order after a few minutes, arranges the plates on the table almost ceremoniously, as if the occasion is indeed a special one and perhaps it is, she thinks, perhaps these periods of peace ought to be appreciated, even celebrated.

"How's the scone?"

"Exquisite, as promised."

"Very good."

He opts for a chocolate chip cookie, takes a quick bite and meets her eyes, and she can almost feel it, the shift, how the atmosphere suddenly seems a bit more meaningful. It's right there in his tone.

"I couldn't help but think about your words last night," he begins.

"Which part?"

"That it scares you how much you miss me."

"Why that part especially?"

"Because I've felt the same way, Lizzie. For quite some time now. Longer than I would like to admit, perhaps."

"And that's a bad thing?"

"Not by any means, no. It's quite an extraordinary thing, really."

She has a good idea what he's trying to tell her, that he hadn't expected her to ever feel the same way, to ever reciprocate that particular emotion, and it'll take time to erase those final doubts but she's almost eager to try now, to convince him, reaches out her left hand and cups the side of his face, her thumb ghosting across his cheek, her fingertips covering the scar on his neck, his lips against her palm as he tilts his head.

"Quite extraordinary," she repeats. "To fall in love like that."

They stay for a few hours, watch the morning crowd go by while they sense no ambitions to leave,  _there's still cookies left to be sampled, Lizzie_ , and when they rise from their seats much later it still seems just a bit too soon.

"You know, I've been thinking about that apartment of yours," he says as he guides her outside.

"In what respect?"

"You said you lacked inspiration, motivation. I think I could help you with that."

"I told you I couldn't possibly put up a wanted poster—"

"Yes, and while I stand by that suggestion, there's actually a few galleries near the promenade that might solve your artistic predicament. And since our last detour along the water was such a roaring success—"

"—it would be downright irresponsible to let another opportunity pass us by."

"Precisely. Shall we then?"

* * *

Somehow she's always been aware of his avid interest in art but experiencing it firsthand is a different revelation altogether, the way he analyzes and judges, the way he examines, and she feels the sudden urge to explore museums in his company, to walk up the staircase of the Metropolitan and listen to his interpretations. There's always next time, she thinks. Another adventure. For now, she's perfectly content with the prospect of having paintings in her home that remind her of him, the empty walls a thing of the past. A roaring success, indeed.

He stops in front of the portrait of a young woman, the lines of her face slightly distorted, the composition somewhat odd, and she catches up with him, can't hide the amused grin when she sees his expression.

"Remind you of anything, Red?  _The only Vermeer in private hands_ , perhaps?"

He almost shudders at her words.

"That dreadful thing still haunts me."

"And all that  _hideous_  music she must be playing."

"Enjoying yourself, Lizzie?"

"Very much so." She leans in to whisper, her hand searching for his as he turns to look at her. "This was a wonderful idea, Red. Thank you."

"My pleasure."

They spend the rest of the afternoon by the water, discovering hidden spots far away from the crowds, discussing a case she had been wanting to tell him about, and when she proposes that he'd accompany her to put up the pieces she had just acquired, his response is nothing short of predictable.  _I thought you'd never ask._

* * *

It's a surprisingly simple endeavor, turning her apartment into a home, finally, after all these months, and she thinks his presence has a lot to do with it, has  _everything_  to do with it. It's how they function together, as a team, skilled and in sync, and she doesn't miss how effortless it seems with him, how natural, this kind of domesticity.

"What do you think?" he asks as they look at the finished wall together, a trilogy of paintings complimenting the interior perfectly.

"I think if the FBI and informant positions don't work out for us, we always have a career to fall back on."

"We've done pretty well."

"Yes, we have."

"There's one more thing, however."

She watches him retrieve his coat from the back of the couch, watches as he pulls a slim wooden box from his inside pocket and hands it to her.

"The finishing touch," he tells her. "Open it."

She doesn't know what to expect, carefully lifts the metal latch in the front and opens the lid.

It's the two of them smiling back at her, a shot of them dancing in the middle of a jazz club, the crowd disappearing around them and his gaze focused on her, only her. She can feel her hand tremble as she picks up the frame, wants to get a better look at it, not miss a single detail, because she knows photographs are a rare thing, a precious thing for him, and it's much more than that, really, it's a souvenir, a good luck charm, it's all the words they've left unspoken, all the secrets they've ever shared, the beginning of their story. It's everything.

"The owner of the venue, a good friend of mine, has a fondness for photography. He sent me this because he thought I might like to share it with the, and I quote, delightful lady I seemed so  _smitten_  with."

"It's beautiful, Red."

She kisses him because no words seem to suffice, no response good enough. When she pulls back, he sighs at the loss of contact.

"So…smitten, huh?" she teases.

"His words, not mine."

"And what would your words be?"

He smiles and pushes a strand of hair behind her ear, lets his thumb glide down the side of her neck, gently presses his lips against hers with every image of her running through his mind, pleading looks exchanged through the blood-stained glass of a box, a cab coming up a driveway,  _you can never do that again_ , the comforting pressure of her head on his shoulder, a sky full of stars, her arms around his neck in heartbreaking relief, every call, every promise, the first time he knew,  _to fall in love like that_.

"The heart has its own memory." The fantasy they've shared. "And I have forgotten nothing."


	9. If You Could

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the longer wait but I hope it was worth it. This is the final chapter of the regular story, however, there will be an epilogue. I hope you enjoy. Thank you all for showing this fic so much support over the last couple of months. It's been a pleasure to write it and a joy to read your comments.

He's not sleeping.

She can't really see him in the dark, can only assume if his eyes are closed or not, but it's his breathing that gives him away. The subtle differences she doesn't miss anymore.

"Go back to sleep, Lizzie," he tells her softly and she smiles. She's not quite sure what woke her. Maybe she could sense there was something on his mind.

"I could say the same about you."

"Touché."

She moves closer to rest her head on his pillow, watches him from the side as her eyes get used to her surroundings and his features become clearer.

"What are you thinking about?"

"How far we've come."

"My guess was on the Vermeer girl but that's better," she teases.

"Much,  _much_  better, I assure you." He finds her warm skin underneath the sheets, lets his fingertips travel down her arm, distracts himself.

"Red, can I ask you something?"

"Anything."

"Do you ever think about starting over?"

"I think it's a little late for that."

"But if you could. If things could be different, if circumstances could have changed. What would it look like? What do you dream about, Red?"

He withdraws his hand, turns over on his side to face her. His voice is calm and confident when he begins. He's imagined this story many times.

"It's a mild summer evening, the kind that's been captured in paintings and photographs when the sky changes color and the world stares in wonder. It's become one of our rituals, watching the sunset from our terrace, listening to the sound of the waves crashing into the bay. You have a blanket wrapped around your shoulders because the air is getting cooler. You tell me it might rain tomorrow, that we could sleep in and spend the day at the house to finish decorating. There's a few photos we still need to find the right spots for, pictures of the places we've visited over the years. We have the space for it now, after all."

"Where are we?"

"The Southern Tuscan coast. We've acquired a small estate there. Nothing extravagant, but the view is spectacular and the way the light breaks through the trees—"

"—is your favorite thing." She remembers it, too, a moment on a sofa many years ago. He's always had a penchant for artistic details. The beauty found in small things.

_Your future is arriving now._

"I don't want us to erase our past, Lizzie. I believe things happened as they were supposed to. But I wish we could have had more of this. The luxury of tranquility."

They're so vivid, the images he's painting, and she can almost see it reflected on the ceiling now, the two of them, serene, safe, can almost feel the ocean breeze in her hair.

"It sounds wonderful," she whispers, turns and notices how his breathing has settled into a steady rhythm. His eyes are closed.

Gently, she kisses the corner of his lips and follows his lead.

They'll be dreaming of the same thing tonight.

* * *

He has to leave for the week. Another trip.

He can't always avoid them, tries the best to make his absence short, but the days drag on, still, and she keeps herself busy with stacks of paperwork, stays at the office longer than necessary.

_Go home_ , he tells her on the phone one evening,  _the files will still be in the same place tomorrow_ , and he's right, of course, nothing here is urgent, but the apartment is a lonely place without him and everything becomes amplified at night.  _Go home and call me when you get there._

She hasn't been able to forget it, the life he described so beautifully, a reverie she finds herself envisioning more frequently these days.  _It's a mild summer evening_. There had been times she'd have deemed the mere concept impossible, wouldn't have known what it could have looked like, but now, imagining it, letting him tell her about it, seems like a source of strength, something worth fighting for, something in the grasp of their hands. Something not at all abstract.

When she unlocks the door, she has already dialed his number. It only rings once.

"You made it."

"And you've been waiting by the phone."

"Impatiently. In all seriousness, you seemed upset earlier. Is anything the matter?"

_But the view is spectacular._

"Nothing. It's just been a frustrating investigation. Tell me about your day."

"Would you like to hear about the dreadful post-breakfast meeting or the dreadful post-lunch meeting?"

"Are those my only two options?"

"They were  _my_  only two options."

She laughs at the indignation in his voice, can picture him sitting in a boardroom with that particular pout of his.

"No decent pastries to lighten the mood?"

"Their croissants were an affront, Lizzie. I miss our cafe. I miss  _you_."

"I know. We're still here, the cafe and I. We're not going anywhere."

"That's a relief."

"You'll be back on Sunday morning?"

"If everything goes according to plan, yes."

"And I'll see you that day?"

"Without a doubt. I'll need to rectify this croissant situation."

"And?"

"And I would also very much like to see you."

"That's better."

"And I would love to hear what's on your mind, Lizzie."

He knows her too well.

"Okay." It's barely a sigh.

"That's better," he says teasingly and she wishes she could look up and find him smiling back at her. Only a few more days.

"Red, I—"

"What is it?"

It doesn't have to be too late. It doesn't have to be a dream.

They could find a way.

They always have.

_I wish we could have had more of this._

"I miss you, too."

* * *

She leaves much too early on Sunday afternoon, his flight has barely landed and it'll take time for him to make it through traffic, but she needs the distraction, needs to think of a way to explain to him what she's done. He'll be grateful, she thinks, cautiously ecstatic. But he'll have questions, too, and she wants to erase his doubts before they have a chance to arise.

It had been an easy decision in the end. A few calls, a few conversations, her choice explained and accepted. There wouldn't ever be a perfect time, she knew that, too, but it had seemed like a waste suddenly, the waiting, the dreaming. His absence the last spark of motivation.

She opts for tea instead of coffee, doesn't need the caffeine to make her heart beat even faster, preorders some pastries so the cafe won't be out once he arrives. She doesn't notice him come in a little later, only feels him place a kiss on the top of her head.

"I hope I haven't kept you waiting."

"Hey," she responds softly as he sits down across from her, his eyes a bit tired but relieved. "Welcome back."

"I must be at the right table," he notes with a look at the assortment before him.

"I made sure there'd be enough left."

"I adore you, Lizzie. Thank you."

"How was the flight?"

"Uneventful. A pleasant surprise, really."

"So you're well-rested?"

"I've been much worse."

"Good. That's good."

He can't fully gauge her demeanor, doesn't miss the nervous cadence in her voice, the way her fingertips are tapping against her mug a little too rapidly. Slowly, he covers her hand with his and leans in.

"Lizzie, talk to me. What's going on?"

She looks up to meet his gaze, holds him there with every promise they've ever made, every sacrifice, with every morning they've ever woken up across from each other, every night she's fallen asleep beside him.

"I requested some time off work."

He doesn't quite understand.

"Pardon?"

"A leave of absence, Red. I requested a leave of absence."

It's somewhere in the back of his mind, the answer to the question he is about to ask. It's arrogant, so far from being easily accepted, so far from being taken for granted. It's an outrageous thing to believe. And yet he knows it to be true. And yet he needs to hear it.

"Why did you do that?"

"Because I want us to have more of  _this_ , too."

He was right.

"For how long?"

"A year."

He's stunned, overwhelmed. The opportunities are endless. All the places he'd like to show her.

"I have a multitude of questions, Lizzie."

"I knew you would have."

"One in particular."

"Which would be?"

She watches him take her hand, watches him press a kiss to the back of it. His expression takes her breath away. A man in love.

"Where would you like to go first?"

She's prepared for this part, too.

"You told me about a castle in Trieste once. That i should come with you if work permits."

He remembers it vividly, the two of them in the same spot, the circumstances so very different.

"And you told me you'd think about it."

"Which I have."

"And what's the verdict?"

_If you could…_

"Let's go."


	10. Fate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’ve made it to the epilogue which means this little fic has come to its conclusion. I would like to thank all of you for reading and commenting - it’s been an absolute pleasure to write this story. 
> 
> For anyone who’s interested, I have a new fic in the works. The first chapter is written and should be up soon. Until then, thanks again and I hope you’ll all be pleased with Red and Lizzie’s happily-ever-after.

“Looks like it’s going to rain.” She steps up to the railing, balances her cup delicately on top, clouds looming over the horizon in the distance. “Maybe we could stay in and hang those photos. What do you think?”

She turns around and finds him staring, his expression almost awestruck, full of reverie and meaning, like a memory conjured into existence, like a dream becoming reality.

Oh.

She makes the connection herself, recalls the vision he had shared with her that night. Recalls every detail.

Without speaking a word, she walks over and sits down next to him, the ocean breeze tickling her skin as she pulls a blanket over their legs, her eyes closing in bliss as he presses a kiss to her temple.

_What would it look like?_

Exactly like this.

* * *

It’s been 16 months since her final day with the Bureau. It took two weeks for her to know that she wouldn’t return.

She hasn’t abandoned her profiling skills, her drive to crack intricate cases. His list is long and the world hasn’t become any less chaotic, but they pull the strings from afar now, leave the final pieces of the puzzle to capable hands. Some days an unmarked manila folder appears on Aram’s desk, coordinates, passwords, whatever is required to take the next step. There’s never any note included, never a confirmation, but he has an idea. On Christmas Eve, he finds a postcard in his mailbox. “Thank you for all you do. R & L.” He had been right all along.

She couldn’t go back now, not with the experiences their side of the ocean has had to offer. Life here is peaceful and quiet. Life here is the view of the shoreline in the morning, lazy weekdays spent in bed and curious touches beneath the sheets, life here is watching his comically irritated expression when the sunlight finds its way past the drapes in the morning, forcing him to bury his head underneath the pillow to shield himself from the sudden brightness. Life here is long evening walks along the promenade, somewhere amongst the tourists and the locals, somewhere in the middle, that's where they fit. Life here is nothing like Washington. Life here is everything she dreamed of.

They’ve made the castle their own. The first time he had showed her around, she was surprised by how cozy it had appeared. Spacious, yes, but by no means excessive.  Elegant, yet welcoming. It had been easy to imagine a future here. It had been the easiest thing in the world.

The cafe around the corner of her apartment has turned into a quaint local bakery by the harbor. They take turns picking up bread and pastries in the morning, always leave a tip for the owner with the promise they’ll be back the next day. They haven’t broken it once.

He still dons three-piece suits most days, though he has grown fond of linen blends lately, a bit looser, a bit more casual. Something light for the summer months. She likes him best in just about anything, enjoys watching him when he takes his time picking a matching tie or fedora, like a mathematician trying to solve an equation. Sometimes he'll leave the choice to her. Sometimes she tells him there's really no need to get dressed at all.

He tells her stories about his childhood. She tells him about cases she studied at Quantico.

The sunset is nothing short of magical.

* * *

“A little to the right.”

He adjusts the frame as instructed, bends backwards to regard his work.

“How does it look?”

“Like a home.”

“Well, then we’re done here.”

He steps down from the ladder, joins her in the middle of the living room, a clear view of the wall.

It’s a plethora of memories, a collage of their story, moments of felicity, playful smiles and candid glances and a dance at a jazz club in the center.

“I’m so glad you sat down across from me that morning,” she says without averting her eyes from the display in front of her. “I’m so glad I decided to stay. Maybe none of this would have happened if I had left minutes earlier.”

“Or maybe fate would have been kind to us still. A different route, perhaps. After all, there was a reason I sought you out that day.”

“And why did you?”

“Because I longed for your company, Lizzie. Because I was finally ready to admit to myself that regardless of the luxuries I could indulge in, regardless of the people I surrounded myself with, the only person I wanted to talk to and share my life with was you. In whatever capacity the circumstances would allow.”

“I felt the same way.” She turns to face him then, her words a revelation.

“Like I said,” he kisses her with skill and longing, ”fate.”

Later that night, as the subtle piano of Bill Evans fills the room and the rain taps gently against the windowsill, he asks her to dance with him.

She feels more at ease this time around, maybe because no one is watching them, maybe because all of this is familiar to her now, because  _he_  is familiar to her now, his movements, his hand on the small of her back.

"You never did tell me why you were so good at this," she whispers as he lets her follow his steps.

"I did, actually. The Fred Astaire reference wasn't a lie."

"I thought criminals were notorious liars."

"We pick our battles." He pulls her a little closer, the light ritardando of the final notes changing his rhythm, observes her with such affection that she misses a beat or two.

"You're distracting me," she says with a smile.

"Not on purpose, I assure you. We could, of course, always opt for the milonga instead."

"A sensuous battle."

"I believe some have called it that."

"I don't think we have the space for it, Red," she responds in a hushed tone.

"I'd be happy to move some furniture."

She adores them, these moments when their laughter rings through the house, when he flirts with her so openly that she  _almost_  considers redecorating for a brief tango lesson, when he looks at her in a way that makes her pulse quicken. 

The music has stopped.

"On second thought, I think we will have to postpone the milonga," he tells her.

"And why is that?"

"Because we are missing the celebratory baklava as a reward."

She thinks he's ridiculous. She thinks he makes a good point.

* * *

She doesn't know what the future holds. Where they’ll be living two years from now, five, ten. She doesn’t really care all that much.

For now, the choices they’ve made have been the right ones, daring as they might have seemed. There’s nowhere she’d rather be. No one she’d rather be with.

The sun will be lighting up the room in a few minutes, graze his face and wake him. Softly, she tugs at his hand until he turns on his side, his back to the window.  _That’ll do_ , she thinks and closes her eyes. They will get up eventually.

They have all the time in the world.


End file.
